Masquerade
by TroublingAStar
Summary: So there's this haunted playhouse just outside of Phoenix, Arizona. What show is it haunting? Phantom of the Opera, of course. Throw in the Winchesters and another hunter who's pretty determined to keep them out of it, and you have a good idea of the plot


**Masquerade**

It was _supposed_ to be an open-and-shut case.

Of course, in retrospect, she realizes that she ought to have known better, since few things in life oblige to be easy. And at least she had help.

Eh. Help is a relative term.

She glances back at the retreating '67 Impala, sun glinting off the black paint job like a smudge of gold. Well, she supposes she wouldn't be _sorry_ to see them again, though she hardly intends to seek them out.

In any case, the whole fiasco started two weeks ago, when she came across rumors of some strange things going on at a small theatre just outside of Phoenix. Apparently, in the span of three months, the group had lost _five_ actresses, all of whom were playing the lead female role. The play was _Phantom of the Opera_.

She just had to love cliché.

All of the girls had gone missing at certain points during the performance. Typically, the last scene they'd've been in was a scene involving Christine and the Phantom leaving the stage together. After that, the girls were later found dead, hanged in their own room.

Needless to say, the group was about to shut down the whole production and disband for good. Normally she wouldn't have bothered—actually, she was ready to take a break—but, well, what could she say? She was a sucker for theatre.

"Um, excuse me," she called out, walking into the playhouse. It looked like a rehearsal was going on, albeit extremely half-heartedly.

"What do you want?" someone—it was hard to tell who because the theatre was dark and her eyes were still adjusting—asked rudely, though they were silenced by a look from someone else. The director, maybe.

"I hear you people need a Christine?" she offered, wondering if maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. She could've easily pretended to be a reporter, though she was guessing by this point that her reception would've been even chillier.

The probable director looked at her incredulously, clearly wondering just what rock she'd been living under for the past few months.

"Ah. You _do_ realize that we only have one performance left?" he inquired.

Aha. That would explain why they were still even there. She would never get theatre types. _The show must go on_. Yes, well, if you get yourself killed, the show _can't_ go on, now can it?

"Yes, of course," she replied hastily. "That's why I'm here."

"Do you have a death wish?" the first person asked. Once again, the director took him down with a look.

"What he _means_," the director corrected, "is…well…"

"Yes, I'm aware of the history of this part," she supplied. Okay, if the director was _really_ willing to let an innocent bystander stray into danger's path, then she appreciated the actor's efforts.

"What's your name?" the director asked curiously.

Moment of truth. Fun. "Ruth," she replied honestly, surprising even herself with her candor. Well. It wasn't like she had a criminal record or anything. "Ruth Fernandez."

"Ruth, have you had any acting experience?"

_The high school play in senior year.__I think I had one line._ "I minored in theatre."

"Where did you go to college?"

She tried not to show any signs of impatience, though his line of questioning was getting to her. Wasn't there a saying about beggars not being choosy?

"Northwestern." That, at least, was true.

"They have a good theatre program."

"It's why I went there," she confessed cheerily, hitching up her smile to another level, just short of blinding. If she had to be patient and sweet much longer, she was seriously washing her mouth out with soap that night.

The director considered for a moment, before shaking his head wearily. "Well, Ruth Fernandez, howdy, and I hope you are a good actress, because you have the part."

* * *

She'd heard of the Winchesters before, of course. Every hunter had heard the awed whispers, the reverent tone with which the name _John Winchester_ was always spoken. It didn't matter if they were at the Roadhouse, or if some had gathered at another hole-in-the-wall bar, cloistered together in a booth in the back, gazing warily at the civilians around them as they swapped stories. A man would roll up his sleeves, revealing heavily scarred, muscular arms, claiming _this is where the werewolf almost got me, and I'm not ashamed to admit that John Winchester saved my life. A silver bullet right to the heart in one shot._ The others would nod, haunted eyes glimmering in the dim light. _John Winchester was a good man_, someone would add, _cared for his boys more'n anything_. And then yet another hunter would say, _raised his boys well. Any of you ever met Sam and Dean? They're a sight, that's for sure, a pretty boy and a Mr. Sensitive, and if they weren't John Winchester's sons I'd say they have no business hunting. But they're gifted, every bit as good as their daddy._

She bought into the legends just as much as the next hunter, impressed by the Winchesters' formidable skill. She'd even fantasized about meeting them someday—_what?_ She wasn't allowed to fangirl a little? They were _good_ at what they did.

What she'd never imagined was that she'd meet them by finding them going through things in her dressing room.

Actually, she noticed them skulking around the theatre not too long after she joined the cast, but she hadn't recognized them. Reporters, they claimed to be. _Weekly World News._ Investigating the deaths surrounding the musical. Their story was dodgy, but then so was the newspaper, she thought. She was such a rookie sometimes. But still, seriously. There'd been nothing else particularly off about them, no EMF (though her EMF reader had admittedly spazzed and all but broken shortly after she took the case), no sizzle when she "accidentally" tripped over something near one of them—the freakishly tall one—and accepted help with a grateful smile and a holy water-moistened hand. The other boy had raised his eyebrows suggestively, prompting an eyeroll on her part, but they weren't spirits and they weren't possessed, so she figured they had little to do with her.

It was after a particularly long and exhausting rehearsal and she had been making her way to her room, wishing the stupid evil spirit would show itself already so she could exorcise or kill it and never have to step foot in a theatre again. She noticed that the door to her dressing room was slightly ajar. Strange, since she made a point of keeping it closed and locked; she kept some weapons in there in case of emergency. A shuffling sort of sound floated out, followed by the rumble of male voices. Immediately, she was on edge. Why would someone be in her room? Actor sabotage? Someone who knew what she was really up to? Her pulse quickened at the thought, and she pressed her back against the wall as she carefully drew her gun from its hiding place in the waist of her long skirt. Okay…now was no time to lose her head. Figuratively or literally.

In one motion, she was in the doorway of her room, gun cocked, ready, and pointed at the dark blond head of one of the two perpetrators. She was surprised to see the reporters, to say the least, but she wasn't about to give them that upper hand when she was already outnumbered.

"So tell me," she drawled, causing them both to start guiltily and hoped neither one saw the uncertainty in her eyes or slight trembling of her fingers; she'd never killed a man yet and she didn't want to start now. "Are you two psycho-fans or just plain psychos?" She waited a beat before answering her own question. "Oh, _wait_, that's right, I have no fan base as of yet."

She was well aware that she could very well be overreacting, but she could never be too careful.

"Uh, look, Ruth," the dark-haired one started, shocking her a little at his knowledge of her name and making her train her gun on him instead. He straightened up slowly, arms out in a placating gesture.

The fact that he had at least good foot on her in height antagonized her even more.

"How did you know my name?" she demanded.

The blond gestured at the poster for the musical on her wall, the slightest of smirks tugging at his lips. "It's, uh, everywhere."

Wow. Her name was, in fact, everywhere in large letters, as she played Christine. Sometimes her lack of common sense surprised even her. She blew her long bangs out of her eyes in frustration, not noticing how the boy who had just spoken was edging closer to her.

"We're here to help," the taller one tried again, still in a fairly soothing tone of voice, as though he was a rational adult trying to reason with a nutjob. Although she _was_ the one with a gun… "I'm Sam, and this," he gestured to the other boy, who stopped and smiled innocently, "is Dean."

_Wait a second…Sam and Dean? _A flicker of memory sparked at the names. "Not Winchester?" she finally asked.

The boys glanced at each other. It was only for a moment, but she felt that a whole conversation had just passed between them.

"That depends," Dean answered carefully. "Would you still shoot us if we were?"

She laughed, though barely lowering her gun. "You two are _legendary_. You're Winchesters! Every hunter knows about you."

"Dude, we're famous," Dean grinned, as Sam exclaimed, "_Oh._She's a _hunter._"

"Yeah, I am," she rolled her eyes, mildly annoyed that it was apparently_that_ hard to tell.

"Mind putting that gun down now, sweetheart?" Dean asked, glancing down at it meaningfully.

"If you call me sweetheart again, I _will_ shoot you," she threatened, but put it away nonetheless.

"So, are you on a hunt?" Sam queried, as she settled herself down at her vanity table and tried not to be overawed by the fact that she was meeting _the Winchesters_ or be embarrassed that she'd almost shot them.

"No, I take on haunted roles for fun," she replied dryly, applying a little powder on her sweaty face and watching the boys' mirror reflections. Sam gravitated to a folding chair leaning against the wall perpendicular to the door, though he seemed too diffident to actually sit on it (or maybe it was too small for him?), while Dean was quite comfortable resting on her trunk. "_Yes_, I'm on a hunt."

"What'd you find on the spirit?"

She frowned; she hadn't been able to dig up any conclusive evidence that the culprit _was_ a spirit, necessarily. All of the killings had taken place in this particular playhouse, making the possibility of a cursed object less likely, but the building's background was completely clean, ruling out an angry spirit from some sordid affair long past. Of course, there was also the problem of her lacking a properly working EMF meter, but all the same…

"I'm…not convinced it's a spirit," she said hesitantly.

"Come on, we're talking weird noises, apparitions, and flickering lights," Dean insisted, leaning forward and resting his arms on his legs. "Textbook behavior."

She turned around, gaping at the two of them. "Who told you that?"_And why couldn't I find anything about that?_

He smirked suggestively, while Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. "We met an extremely…_talented _local actress who had heard some things, and let me say, she has _great_ taste in—"

"I get it, I get it," she cut in. Typical male. Useful information, though. If only she'd known all it took was eye candy to get people to talk… "Well, now you know a hunter is in fact working on this case, so you two can find something else to do."

"No."

"But we can help," Sam offered.

"I don't need help," she replied churlishly.

"Look, if you're putting yourself up as bait, the least you could do is have a little back up."

She whirled around to face Dean. "I'm not _bait_. I took the role to have a plausible excuse to hang around the theatre."  
"I'm not saying it's a bad thing. Actually I thought for a minute there I was going to have to send Sammy on stage, and his singing would probably scare off the spirit  
so bad—"

"Very funny," Sam cut in.

"Hey, you're the one with the stage experience."

She managed to suppress a laugh, though a grin lit her features. "Look, I appreciate your offer, but I'm a big girl now, sweetheart," she commented, purposely stealing Dean's word. "I've been on hunts_all by myself._"

Actually, she hadn't meant to allude to her age at all, even so obliquely. She was at that point in her life where she had to admit to herself that _thirty_ was no longer a cloud on the distant horizon, but still refused to see that she only had a year standing between herself and that number. She would cross that bridge when she got to it.

"Okay?" she added, glancing at their obdurate faces. "Thanks, but no thanks."

* * *

It was just one of those days. Everyone knows the kind: where nothing seems to go right and even the simplest of tasks take on a monstrous quality. The rehearsal was the worst they'd had…well, ever, as the director had so _kindly_ informed her. And it was still only morning. The main problem, she knew, was that _she was not an actress_. She was a fairly decent opera singer—or so she assumed, as no one's ears were bleeding, making her silently thank her mother for teaching her the basics of opera when she was young; and she was a pretty good dancer—only because of years of lessons when she was young. She had not counted on having to stay on with the company for longer than a few days. Almost a week had passed since she first joined, and a day since she had had that run-in with the Winchesters. She was sorely tempted to ask for help at this point, but her stubborn pride wouldn't let her. Plus, they were going to be _hard_ to track down if they weren't still in town.

"_Ruth,_" Paul—the director—started in the long-suffering tone he reserved for her. "Try that again."

Tired as she was of the stupid song—of the stupid musical—she obliged._"__You have brought me/to that moment/where words run dry/to that moment/where speech  
disappears/into silence/silence…__"_

"Better," he allowed, though the expression on his face made his disappointment obvious. "But you have to have more complexity in your voice. You're not just Amnita singing the song—you're Christine, laying the trap. You need more…darkness."

She started. His voice had suddenly taken on a more macabre timber, and—did his eyes just flash black?

_Oh, hell_. Did she have a _demon_ on her hands?

"Like Sarah. She was our original Christine, you know," he added, advancing on her as she watched warily. "So beautiful…she had these lovely brown doe eyes that just made you _believe_ whatever she said." Paul laughed bitterly. "And I mean _whatever_."

_Am I wrong to think this monologue is verging on creepy?_

"Like when she said that she loved _me_ and not that other man…" He fisted his hands and suddenly threw a punch at one of the walls—which crumpled like paper under the force of his blow.

She took a step back, assessing her options, and cursing herself for not looking into that possibility more thoroughly. All of her weapons—her knives, her guns, her everything useful—were going to be ineffectual against a demon, especially since she wasn't going to kill the _man_ if she could help it. She had some rosary beads looped around her right wrist, and could maybe use her rock-salt-loaded gun to hold him off, but what she really needed was a devil's trap…

"You killed her?" she asked vacantly, trying to keep Paul talking so she could keep thinking.

He turned his disturbingly blank eyes on her. "Killed her? Of course I killed her. What else could I do? She was going to leave the company…"

Why hadn't she thought to put together a devil's trap, just in case?! She was a _hunter_, for God's sake!…she _did_ have a pentagram around her neck, but that wouldn't be big enough,_duh_…but…wait a second—she whirled around to the rest of the actors, wondering why no one seemed to be so much as reacting.

Her eyes widened.

"I didn't kill her _directly_, of course." Paul's voice echoed from behind her. "I killed her spirit—this company was her soul."

The actors—the _spirits_—looked on at her sadly, as if they'd been trying to tell her all along.

_"Do you have a death wish?"_

Or maybe they had…

"You killed them _all_?" she asked incredulously, slowly turning back around. "Every single—_every single one_?"

"I never thought she'd kill herself over it," he continued melancholically. "_Hang_ herself with a set prop, no less."

She turned around slowly, trying to process this. "How did you—this never made the papers—?"

"Yes, well, that _was_ a problem," Paul allowed. "I was heartbroken over Sarah, and all the sordid press would ruin me. But…" he added, and a slow smile came over his face as his eyes flashed an even emptier shade of black. "That's when I met someone who said she could help me."

"You…um…" she swallowed. "You _do_ realize that that someone was a demon, right? The things that are, you know, evil, endanger your immortal soul…" _Not that you had much of one anyway, clearly…_Humans always scared her more than spirits and demons…

He snorted. "Aren't you supposed to be a _hunter_?"

Well, there went her innocent act. So the demon had helped him bind the spirits to that place—to himself—but why?

"Um…" she trailed off.

"The Winchesters make poor friends these days, I have to say," the demon continued.

"This is about _Sam and Dean?_" she cried.

It figured. The case she took and worked over was meant for the Winchester boys. Typical.

"Of course it's about Sam and Dean," the demon said, sounding bored. "I have a score to settle with them."

"That's why," she breathed. "Paul, the theatre troupe—you didn't really care about wreaking havoc there at all, you helped him so you draw out Sam and Dean. And all those Christines…"

She was torn between being glad she'd refused the boys' help, for their sakes, and being regretful she'd refused their' help, for her own sake. This was _not_ going to be easy.

Paul shrugged. "I've killed a lot more for a lot less."

She couldn't afford to get distracted by the particulars of this case!

_Never a devil's trap lying around when you need one! Why can't people just paint them in buildings for good measure?_

"So, are you going to tell me why they aren't," he shrugged again, "bursting through the door to save the day?"

"They're not here."

"Oh really? And to think I could've had them last week," he mused. "Don't you just _hate_it when that happens?"

"I know what _I_ hate," she muttered, fingering her pendant. The least she could would be to free the spirits, but she'd need to figure out what they were bound to…

"Well, when they hear about your death, I'm sure they'll come back," the demon said dismissively.

Lovely. She was going to _kill_ those boys, the next time she met them.

"We're hardly friends," she pointed out. "Actually, I can hardly stand them."

"If you weren't a hunter, I'd say this is the start of a beautiful friendship, but…as it is…" he shrugged, examining his nails for a moment—before lunging at her.

She dodged, instinctively grabbing for her rock salt gun. She fumbled it slightly, almost dropping it. The demon didn't miss a beat, taking advantage of her momentary clumsiness to knock it across the stage.

_Crap_.

Before she could even begin to think of what to do next, she was thrown backwards into the wall of the set with enough force to knock the whole thing over, taking her down as well. A thought popped into her head about how captains were always supposed to go down with their ships, but she shrugged it off, aware that her sudden lack of cogency probably had something to do with the fact that she'd banged her head against…well, against _something_ (or was it a few somethings?), and the realization that a massive wooden plank had slammed down on top of her, knocking the wind out of her when she couldn't really afford to lose even more brain cells. She gasped for air, vainly attempting to shove the thing off of her.

"This is even easier than I thought it would be," Paul commented lazily. "Is that the best you can do?"

_Hardly._

"Don't you wish," she added aloud, kicking her shoes off and grasping for one of the bulkier knives she had concealed in the heel of her pumps. For once, she was glad she was of a more diminutive height. She jammed the knife into the board—narrowly missing her abdomen—ah, yes, this is why she shouldn't be allowed around weapons when very possibly concussed—and attempted to saw through the rest of the wood.

"Amusing as this is to watch, I'll need time to orchestrate the media coverage on your death," his voice rang out. "Could you speed up the process?"

Gritting her teeth, she grabbed onto her makeshift handle and violently shoved the plank off of her. Luckily, she had enough presence of mind to pull out the knife she had in her other shoe—so as to not be imbalanced—before standing up.

"I am _not_ going to die today," she finally responded, trying to reign in her panting so as not to totally mar the effect of her words. "You, on the other hand…"

"Oh, I'm _terrified_," the demon smirked condescendingly.

In spite of herself, she pressed two fingers to her temples. Her head was throbbing, and a loud ringing filled her ears. She had to _focus._ Free the possessed person first, and then it would just be a matter of a standard issue salt-and-burn. But what could the spirits be bound to? Well, she'd never seen them leave the building…

_Oh_.

She dropped her knives and drew her gun.

"You _do_ realize that I can't actually die, right? That there's only one gun in the world that can do that?" he offered, seemingly befuddled by her change of tactic. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. At least I can drag Paul's soul to hell with me."

She flinched.

"Oh, I bet you know all about that, don't ya, Ruth?" he smiled pleasantly. "When I was last in hell, I heard some talk."

"Did you now?" she asked, shying away from her memories and training her gun on him. "And you couldn't be bothered to stay put?"

"Cute. Is it true, though? Was he really killed by a demon? Protecting _you_, no less?"

_Aaron._ She bared her teeth. "What's it to you?"

"My, my, my, getting defensive, are we?" Paul sauntered over to where she stood. "It _is_ true. How sweet. "

"Don't _talk_ about him!" she shouted, stiffening. The pentagram around her neck felt heavy, almost suffocating. It was so easy still, for her to be able to picture him. He had always been so jaunty, up to the very end…

"Shame, really. After all, it _was_ all your fault, wasn't it?"

Yes. Yes, it was her fault. She had just _had_ to take on that one last case, couldn't have waited for them to even have their first wedding anniversary. It wasn't _supposed_to be so nightmarishly difficult; the demon wasn't _supposed_ to have such an ingenious trap waiting for her…

"Think of it this way," the demon said softly, scarcely a foot away from her now. "You'll be able to see him soon."

Oh, but she _had_ thought of that, a million times at least. She'd been so reckless in that first year after, almost _hoping_ for something to go wrong. It wasn't until her twenty-sixth birthday—almost two years later—that she had managed to pull herself together. And that was only with the help of her grandmother and her cousin Carmen…

She blinked, clearing her vision. Why was she even _thinking_ about this?

He would never forgive her if he knew she was wasting her life wallowing like this. That's why she had to be strong.

Without missing a beat, she cocked the gun and shot twice—at the ropes supporting the massive chandelier hanging right over the stage. She allowed herself about three seconds of glory at the look of horror on Paul's face before diving behind the fallen set. She couldn't help it; she squeezed her eyes shut as she braced herself for the crash, which was every bit as loud and violent as she was afraid it would be. She scooted away from the plywood, though, as shards of glass and crystal embedded themselves into her barrier.

_Better it than me…_

Finally, she opened her eyes as relative silence settled upon the theatre. The sight that greeted her as she peeked over the edge of the glass-laden set made her burst out laughing. Almost unsurprisingly, _Sam and Dean Winchester_ were standing in the now-open doorway, looks of utter shock on their faces. They both had guns out, and appeared to have been planning on…well, as the Paul-demon had put it, bursting through the doors and saving the day.

She waved weakly. "Hey. You missed the show."

"Apparently," Sam managed, while his older brother just raised his eyebrows.

A quick glance around the now-empty playhouse told her that she was right—the spirits _had_ been bound to the chandelier. The chandelier which had just…burst into flames. Right. How—?

But of course, if the even one candle had been burning when the spirits were bound to the chandelier—more like a massive candelabra—the flame wouldn't have gone out until the spirits were freed. She guessed the air rushing past the little flame must have worked to enlarge it, instead of extinguishing it, resulting in…well…the monstrous conflagration that was starting to threaten the theatre. The _historic_ theatre, practically a national monument (if one listened to the locals), which she had just single-handedly broken beyond repair. Had to love being a hunter.

She hesitated, then opted to leave behind her rock salt gun and knives, already lost in the rubble that was the stage. Satisfied to see Dean shooting salt at the chandelier—causing the flame to flare with every dose—she picked her way across to the stairs at stage right, and tried to avoid slipping on the glass. The attempt was successful, surprisingly, until her foot hit a particularly large shard of glass as she stepped off of the last step, making her slip and fall onto her back, hitting the steps painfully. She didn't dare look at the wetness on her arms, not wanting to see the blood, and scrambled to her feet, avoiding the gazes of the Winchesters as she fairly ran past the seats and out of the building. They were right behind her as she stepped out into the fresh air. She breathed deeply. It was only slightly marred with smoke, though that was enough to remind her to put even more distance between them and the building.

"Is the demon gone?" Dean asked as he followed her, looking around, guard still up.

"I don't think so—and I'm fine, so don't ask—" she added quickly. "I wasn't able to trap and exorcise it yet…I only hope I didn't kill Paul." She cringed at the thought. Then something hit her. "Wait a sec—how'd you know it was a demon?" She paused. "Actually, no, don't answer that."

_I'll just think the Winchesters can do_anything_…it's as good as any other explanation_.

The uneasy silence was broken all at once, as an earsplitting scream seared the air. She jumped—almost shrieking, herself—and turned to see Paul as he staggered around the corner of the building. belching out a distinctly demonic black mist. Wonderful. If she had rotated a little further, she would've seen how both Sam and Dean had started at the noise, immediately pointing their guns in Paul's direction, as if that was how they viewed life: _everything is a threat until proven innocuous_.

She would count herself lucky, just for that one moment.

* * *

The thunder was deep that night, as ebony storm clouds billowed across the sky. She watched through the window, though the mere thought of a thunderstorm made her feel like she was about to come unglued. Instead, she tried to focus on the voices of the Winchester boys behind her. They were trying to figure out whether or not this case was really finished, it seemed. After all, how were they supposed to hunt down _that particular_ demon again? The likelihood of just stumbling across it was probably better than the odds of tracking and finding it. At the same time, neither they nor she wanted to leave Phoenix without making sure the demon had left the place.

A frigid touch snaked down her neck, making her shiver and swat at the spot distractedly. Her hand came back wet, of course, making her sigh and readjust the ice pack Sam had all but ordered her to keep on the swelling on the back of her head. She fidgeted, running a hand over the scratchy motel bedspread she sat on, still avoiding looking at her scratched-up arms, though the cuts had stopped bleeding long ago.

"I still think the demon stuck around," she said, shifting some of her long hair over her shoulder. "It _said_ it had a score to settle with you two specifically."

"Yeah, it and every other supernatural freak in the country," Dean replied darkly.

"Just how many demons have you pissed off, Dean?" Sam asked, looking up from whatever he doing on his laptop.

The blond rolled his eyes and tossed a pillow in Sam's direction. It bounced off of his head, making him flinch, but he just rolled his eyes and typed something else.

"It seemed to know you guys pretty well," she persisted.

"Anything in particular stick out in your mind?"

"Um…" she considered. "Well, it implied it might have killed a lot of people at a time."

"The demon from the plane?" Sam offered.

"I swear, if we have to get on another plane, I'm personally escorting that demon back to hell," Dean replied testily.

"Let me think!" she scolded. "Hm…well, it said it had been in hell recently."

"Well, that sure narrows down the list," the oldest Winchester said. "Anything else?"

She rolled her eyes, biting back an equally acerbic response. "Oh! Well, the whole case was a ruse to draw you two out, if that rings a bell…" The boys shared a dark look. "I was appalled, you know, that all the death had been for nothing, and the demon had said it'd killed a lot more for a lot less…" she wracked her brain for even insignificant details. "When I first introduced myself, he said 'howdy'—what?" she asked, for the two had straightened at the same time, identical dark looks on their faces.

"Meg," Sam replied, as if that explained everything.

"Come on, haven't we exorcised her enough times already?" Dean complained. "It's like she has a six month rebound rate." Unexpectedly, he grinned. "Maybe she just can't get enough of you, Sam."

"Shut up."

"What? I'm just calling it as I see it."

"Dean, if you mention that again, I swear to God…"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, puzzled.

"Sammy used to have a thing for her," Dean replied, biting back a small laugh.

"_No_, I didn't. It's you who's always shoving girls at me."

"Anyway," she cut in loudly over the boys' bickering. "Does this Meg have any weaknesses? Patterns? Anything?"

"We've dealt with her twice already, so she knows us pretty well," Sam shrugged. "I mean, she's a demon. She's evil and sadistic. She takes your weaknesses and uses them against you."

"Yeah, I noticed," she replied, remembering Meg's poisonous words.

"What, she got something on you?" Dean asked curiously, facing her.

_Crap._ She bit her lip. "Oh, you know," she tried to sound nonchalant. "Hunters talk. Clearly demons do, too. Nothing much better to do, I guess." Putting down the cold compress and clasping her hands, she surreptitiously rubbed at her wedding band until the small diamond was out of sight.

"Right…" the younger Winchester replied, eyes flashing to her hands and then up at his brother. "So. _Assuming_ Meg's around, we'll need to set a trap."

"Awesome," Dean raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like a party."

She leaned forward, after picking up the compress and settling it on her head again, resting her free elbow on her thigh.

"What's the plan?"

* * *

"_No!_" she exclaimed into her cell phone, cradling it with her shoulder as she strode down the sidewalk in Tempe the next morning.

She scowled at the response from the other end of the line. "We've been through this! I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself...Dean! Okay, seriously, get on speakerphone if you _both_ feel the need to—_yes_, Sam, I'm—_no_, don't you dare come down here! I'm serious! This is _my_ hunt, so _back off_."

Slamming her phone shut, she pocketed it and gazed out at the town lake. It was midday, so most people were still in work or school, leaving the area fairly deserted. The deep blue of the lake was beautiful, though it did little to distract her from the sweltering heat—or her recent argument. She scowled again and turned around.

"_God!_" she cried, startled. Someone had been standing _right_behind her.

"Sorry," the girl smiled. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"That's okay," she said, slightly off-put by the graciousness.

The woman had beautiful red curls, which shone gold in the light, and a round face that dimpled when she smiled. She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. An altogether unalarming presence, really.

"So what brings you to these parts?"

"Er," she hedged. "Oh, you know. Traveling through."

"I see." The woman smiled again. "I'm Kylie."

"Ruth," she replied guardedly. Kylie was being perfectly nice! Why did that bother her so much?

_You know you're a hunter when…_

"That's a nice name," Kylie beamed.

"I like to think so."

"So, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," the redhead continued chattily.

_I bet you couldn't_. "Oh really?"

"Boy problems?"

"Um, I guess you could say that. Except I don't like them. At all. Even as friends."

Kylie laughed brightly. "Aw, I'm sure you just think that now."

"No, I'm pretty confident about that."

"Do they know you're here?"

She sighed. "Unfortunately."

The dimpled smile grew. "Perfect."

"I beg pardon?" she raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, just, you know, I'm a big romantic," Kylie rushed to explain. "And this is the part in the book or movie where the guy comes running down to wherever you are and declares he can't live without you, so it's perfect that they know where you are!"

_Am I seriously supposed to buy that?_ "Uh-huh. See, here's the problem with your little scenario: I've never dated either of the boys I was talking to, and I _never ever_ intend to."

"Oh." The younger girl looked crestfallen. "Okay then. Sorry to bother you."

"It's okay," she responded, eyebrows disappearing under her bangs as the girl walked past her.

_Well, that wasn't strange at all._

See, this was what she hated about cases involving possession—you could never know who was trustworthy and who wasn't. Or couldn't she? She remembered Sam telling her how the Tempe Town Lake occupied an area that used to be—or maybe just sometimes was, she couldn't recall—a riverbed for the…oh, what was it?—_right._ The Salt River. Well, she couldn't be sure if the water was at all actually _salty_, or if it was just a name, but hey…

She broke into a run, despite the oppressive heat, and all but launched herself at Kylie, pushing them both into the lake. One of them—she wasn't sure which—shrieked, before the water cut her off. The shock of cold was a welcome respite to the dry air, though, sadly, not as breathable. Grimacing, and making sure she still had a hold on some part of Kylie, she scissor-kicked her legs to move them upwards. Or, at least, what she hoped was upwards. It was hard to tell underwater…

They broke the surface at the same time, gasping for breath.

"You—_you!_" the redhead shrieked, slipping out of her hold and turning to her furiously. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"Sorry," she shrugged blithely. "I slipped, and you were the closest solid thing."

"The closest—!" Kylie screamed again, making her wince. That girl had _lungs._

Unfortunately, the water seemed relatively salt-free. Her eyes stung, and her mouth was full of water, but the taste was no more salty than any other lake. Stupid misleading names.

"I ought to—" the girl screeched, but she didn't pay attention to what Kylie ought to do, because it finally happened—_her eyes flashed black._

"I _knew_ it!" she muttered. "The game's up, _Meg_. I know what you are."

Meg—Kylie—Meg hissed, fixing her with a venomous glare. "I knew I should've just killed you that first day you came into rehearsals. Sam and Dean still would've come."

"Well, that's your mistake, now isn't it?" she retorted, trying not to glance backwards as she started to propel herself towards shore.

"Oh no you don't!" Meg lunged at her, savagely shoving her head under the water before she could get a chance to take a breath. She tried to swim out from under the demon's hands, but Meg kicked her in the gut, immobilizing her as a cascade of air bubbles burst from her mouth.

_Fantastic._

Some noises—shouting, perhaps—broke through the water; she twisted free of Meg's arms and pushed herself a little deeper under, smiling a little in spite of her situation. How nice it was to have back up for a change. Even if she _did_ have to be bait. She kicked upwards again, wheezing at the burn of the air rushing back into her lungs; her cut arms stung. She dodged—almost doing a backstroke—as hail of rock salt rained down upon the water.

"Could you two _try_ not to almost-kill me?!" she screamed back at the shore, though her hoarse throat halved the volume she was going for. "Is that _too much_ to ask for?"

Furiously, she scraped her sopping bangs from her eyes, blinking rapidly to empty them of water. As her vision cleared and then crystallized, she saw Sam and Dean on the nearby dock. They didn't even have the decency to look at least remotely apologetic. Okay, fine, maybe this _was_ according to plan, but _seriously_…

"Stupid boys," she muttered, then turned to see what had become of Meg.

Nothing. The lake appeared empty.

Her eyes widened. It was all well and good for_Meg_ to stay underwater for long periods of time, but _Kylie_ would die.

_Crap._

"What happened?" she asked. "Did she go under?"

"Looks like it," Dean replied, clearly concerned, though not understanding the slightly hysterical note to her voice.

"Just great," she muttered. Ignoring her strong instinct to go back underwater—it was a big lake, Meg could be anywhere, she might not even be down there—she turned her attention to the blue beads miraculously still wrapped around her wrist; unlooping them, she murmured a quick prayer on each bead, thankful to her mother for pounding the Latin in her head, and dropped it back into the lake. Without waiting to see the result—though a part of the lake did indeed start frothing wildly, exploding in bubbles—she swam the short distance to the dock.

"You okay?" Dean asked as he pulled her out of the water.

"I've been wetter, scarily enough," she replied, rolling her eyes and shivering. Why hadn't she remembered to keep her jacket—or a towel—on hand? Also, her thin tank top and skirt were plastered to her body, making her feel a bit exposed in front of the two guys…

"You hunters just _refuse_ to die, don't you?" Meg asked from behind her, making her jump and almost have a stroke.

"_My God_, were you in a pop-up book in a last life?"she asked incredulously, turning to the soaked, possessed girl.

"Howdy boys," the redhead continued, ignoring her. "Sammy, it's been too long."

"Not long enough," he replied.

"Oh, _ouch_. And there I thought you must have missed me."

"What do you want, Meg?" Dean cut in loudly.

Meg pouted. "Just to be able to rip you two limb from limb myself."

"Fun as that sounds," the elder Winchester grinned, as he, Sam, and she backed away, "I don't think you'll be able to do that today."

"And why not?" the girl growled, as she started to follow them—and stopped. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"Sorry," she replied. "I don't think we are."

"And where is the devil's trap this time?" Meg asked, clearly frustrated, looking pointedly at the blank wood of the dock.

It was on the underside of the dock, actually. Sam had snuck to the lake the night before and _painted_ it on, so it wouldn't wash off.

"I can't help but think that's the least of your problems right now," she responded, twisting her left arm around to show the demon the Latin for the beginning of the exorcism rite that had been tattooed on long ago.

_It was Aaron's idea, actually, wasn't it…? To buy us time while he got out the book where we had the whole thing written out…_

Meg yawned. "Exorcisms get so _old_ after a while. Can't you do any other tricks?" She clapped her hands. "Sit! Roll over! Die! You know." She nodded at the female hunter. "Besides, aren't you missing something?"

"What?" she asked, thrown off. "Like what?"

Meg simply responded by holding up a hand and smiling viciously.

All at once, the whole world seemed to go fuzzy, then focusing, and unfocusing again, like those big instruments optometrists used to determine a patient's prescription.

_Meg had her wedding ring._

Stupidly, she looked down at her left hand, which was indeed ringless, and then back up at Meg. She repeated the action multiple times before she found her voice.

"You," she gasped. "No, no, no, no, you, you—"

"So I was thinking of a little exchange," the demon cut across her babbling. "You let me go, in this ringletted puppet, and I don't throw this rock into the lake." She considered. "Or pawn it off, you know, I bet it would fetch a lot…"

"A piece of jewelry?" Dean was stunned. "You want us to let you go for _a ring_?"

Meg's smile widened, if that was possible. "Not just any ring. Right, Ruth?"

Hatred was building in her, a dark mist that tightened her stomach and wound itself around her heart. She let it insinuate itself into her feelings, glad to be rid of the sadness that would have otherwise taken over.

Glancing at the artificially black eyes of Meg's stolen body, she brought her arm back around to her face her as she started reading the Latin rite. The exorcism was fairly straightforward, easy even, as Meg burst forth from Kylie's body and spiraled back to hell. She was proud of herself for only hesitating for a moment when her ring hit the water—the darkness that contaminated her sadness blocked out all of her other emotions, too, it seemed.

Still, it all came rushing back to her as soon as Kylie collapsed, as soon as Meg's last screams faded from her ears, and that's when all of her repressed feelings welled up inexorably. She only cried a little. Very little. And she didn't jump in the lake to try to retrieve her ring, much as she wanted to; she was aware of the improbably of finding it in the large lake, especially now that it had had time to settle on the lakebed. Instead, she affixed some equivalent of a bright look on her face before turning to the Winchesters. Not wanting to see their expressions, she instead focused on the lakehouse just to Dean's right.

"Well, that's done."

Sam seemed intent on using his hazel puppy eyes to get her to feel guilty enough to spill her story—or her feelings, or both—to him, so she risked a glance at Dean as she added, "Thanks."

He nodded, even smiling a little, though she could tell he was totally on the same wavelength of his brother. Well, that was fine as long as she—

_Oh._

She didn't have a car. Actually, she did, but she had left it parked in town, choosing instead to walk to the lake. The walk back was hardly arduous, but…she was still soaked. In fact, she was fairly certain she had algae in her hair. She was drying, yes, but would definitely attract attention. She was tempted to walk back anyway, but she'd scarcely taken one step before realizing that she was barefoot; she'd also lost her shoes in the struggle. Wet barefoot feet. Hot asphalt. Not pleasant.

She grimaced, turning back to Dean. "Could I get a ride back into Tempe?"

He hesitated, to her surprise, green eyes sweeping over her still-wet body before glancing back at his black car. She raised her eyebrows.

"Is there a problem?"

"_Dean_," Sam cut in, looking at him meaningfully. "It's just water."

"_Lake_ water," the older Winchester corrected, almost testily.

"_Dean._"

She cleared her throat, a bemused smile on her face. "Am I missing something?"

"No, nothing, my brother's just—"

"—Water on the upholstery, Sam, how about I ask _you_ to—"

She was tempted to laugh, but she had a feeling they were being serious.

"You know what," she broke in, "it's not really that far, I'll be fine."

Sam wasn't having this, and it appeared even Dean wouldn't_actually_ make her walk, despite his objections, so she found herself, a few minutes later—after the hunters saw to it that Kylie was alright, of course (she was shaken and unwilling to accept any help)—in the backseat of the Impala, sitting on one of Sam's hoodies, with express directions to not move around _too_ much and soak the precious car's upholstery. In the front, the Winchesters were bantering about something or other—she didn't bother to listen closely—though Dean's teasing tone and Sam's obvious exasperation amused her.

Ruth settled back infinitesimally, before closing her eyes and smiling.

* * *

Wow. That was huge. Epic, even.

Only Ruth and the events of the plot belong to me, and I'd like to thank the wonderful firefly, who was my beta, helped massively when I was still struggling to write SamandDean's dialogue, and was an over all huge help. Thanks!

_Originally posted at my older account (grand jete) on 8/3/07._


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